I haven't updated here in awhile, and it is not due to any lack of FEELINGS; believe me, there have been a shit fuck ton of those. It's mostly due to feeling totally overwhelmed, and not really having the words, or the energy to find the words.
I started going to classes again last Monday, and holy crap, it was HARD. Despite my efforts to put the gossip train in motion, there were still quite few people who had no idea we had lost the baby. I had multiple people approach me and say, "congratulations!" And then I watched their faces fall, and watched them fumble for the words, and watched the utter shock and disbelief they were facing in realizing that, yes, babies die.
Part of me wanted to feel indignant over this assumption that everyone makes, that babies live and life goes on happily. This has happened often enough, to enough people of ALL walks of life, that I don't really think it should be as shocking as it is. But, the truth is that no one really talks about it. It's scary, and upsetting. When I was pregnant with Nina-Louise, I heard whispers here and there, stories told in hushed tones of tragic endings to happy pregnancies... but any time I allowed myself to think about (or god forbid TALK about) the possibility of something going wrong, I immediately shut it down with the rhetoric I had been told: it is SO very rare. Less than a 1% chance.
Let me tell ya. Less than 1% sounds a lot lower than 1/160. The odds are very high that someone you know, probably more than one person you know, is going to lose their baby. It is sad, it is awful, and it HAPPENS.
Our culture is not great with death. We have lots of euphemisms we like to use, like, "He's with Jesus," or, "We have an guardian angel watching over us now," or, the always helpful, "She was just too good for this world." But the cold facts are that our bodies are complicated and fragile, and sometimes something horrible happens, like a car hits it, or something just randomly goes wrong inside, like a bunch of cells decide to go apeshit and turn into cancer. And then the body stops working properly and sometimes medicine can't do a fucking thing about it. I hate how little control we actually have, as opposed to how much control we would like to think we have. But it happens. Spouses die. Parents die. Pets die. And even innocent, beautiful babies who you think would have a whole life ahead of them fucking DIE. None of what I'm saying right now is intended to detract from the truly tragic reality of losing a loved one. But tragedy happens, and until you've experienced that tragedy it is very easy to use euphemisms and find profound things to say to try and make the bereaved feel better, but there is a certain amount of value in just letting the bereaved be sad and fucked up for awhile, because what happened to them is sad and fucked up.
BUT. I also used to be a person who had not experienced real tragedy. I knew that some babies, OTHER people's babies, sometimes died. But I was fairly certain that mine wouldn't. And I would have absolutely been one of those sad people approaching a bereaved mom under the unwavering assumption that, since she wasn't pregnant anymore, there was undoubtedly a beautiful, funny, cute, chubby baby somewhere of whom I could ask to see pictures and videos. I would have continued to smile encouragingly as this poor mom fumbled for words, and then I would have felt my heart break for her as the reality of what she was saying slowly seeped in.
I truly wonder what my face looks like as I try to find the words. I have a spiel worked out in my head, but it never comes up fast enough. I'm sure it will, with more time and practice. And there are always the tears. I can never stop them from coming every time I have to say it. Yes, I had the baby, but she was stillborn. She didn't make it. She died. Yes, we have a lot of support. Yes, it's very hard. No, no, don't feel bad for asking. I probably would have done the same thing.
It's all pretty exhausting. But I'm managing.
I also broke up with my therapist, which is a whole different story. She just didn't get what I was dealing with, and she wanted me to keep coming to see her to work it through. But she said things that I couldn't get past, and the trust was gone, and I had to move on. It really sucked, because this happened at a time when I was feeling particularly lonely with my grief, and I realized that even this lady who I fucking PAY to hang out with me and listen to my problems really didn't get it. So, I have a new therapist now, and so far, I like her. But, I have to admit, I'm not terribly trusting these days. I hope it works out to be a good relationship. It's expensive and I'm not really sure where the money is going to keep coming from, but I know I need it. This is just too hard to manage alone.
The weekends are depressing. I try to keep myself as busy as possible, because those big open spaces in the day just should not fucking BE. It seems like everywhere I look, all my friends and neighbors are spending their weekends as a family, cooking out, having play dates, and here I am, fucking bored. I know there are a ton of things I can do, but the fact is that all I really want to be doing is caring for my baby. And any free moment I have in the day is a cruel reminder of just how open my schedule is, how meaningless my commitments seem, how pointless all of this seems without a child to care for.
When I truly decided that I wanted to have a kid with Turner was during the off season from roller derby. I had been SO busy up until then, practicing 4 times a week, classes 4 days a week, a massage practice on the weekends, working out whenever I could, away games, home games... my plate was full. Then, the season ended, and after the first couple of weeks of reveling in all my free time, I started to feel like... is this it? Is this all life is without all of these outside commitments? I mean, roller derby is awesome, but it's not something one can do forever; it takes a toll on your body. In those quiet days in the winter, I realized that ultimately that the meaning in my life comes down to family and relationships; these are the things that will be there forever. Love. It's simple, and it's pretty damn cheesy, but it's true.
It feels so frustrating to have found what that next step in life is, and not be able to take it yet. I want to be a mom. Yes, I understand that I AM a mom, technically. I have a daughter. But she died. So, being told, "But you ARE A mom!" kinda feels like the participation trophy I got at the end of every soccer season. Way to show up, kid! I am a mom to a canister full of ashes. It's not exactly the way I envisioned it.
I'm learning how to carry my grief. It's big and unwieldy. I really fucking wish that I could just put it down for a minute, or pass it off to someone for an hour or two, but I can't; it just doesn't work that way. Sometimes it's incredibly overwhelming, living with the knowledge that I will carry this grief forever. The other night, Turner and I went to a support group, and Turner talked about how he thinks about Nina-Louise all the time, and about how his final thought on this earth is probably going to be of her. And I wished that because his grief is just as heavy and terrible as mine, that it might make it easier for both of us, like we could carry the same grief and share the load. But his pain is his own, and mine is my own, and we each carry the pain separately and differently, and all we can do is commiserate about how hard it is, and maybe share what is working for one of us in a certain moment.
Despite our separate experiences, I always know that, even in a crowded room, I can look to Turner, and give him a sad smile from underneath the immense beast on my back, and I'll see him reflect the same expression back to me, as he struggles to carry his own burden, and we both know that, at the very least, that weight we each carry is love that we share for the baby we never got to raise. These days are kind of dark, and really tough, and the pain changes from day to day; sometimes the grief is lighter than others, which I hope is a sign that maybe someday it will lighten significantly, or that maybe my muscles are getting strong enough to manage. Lately it feels like we're just slogging through it, putting one foot in front of the other. The minutes and hours and days tick by, and we try our best to remember to laugh, to enjoy what we can, but it doesn't come easy. It's work. We're getting through it, but we're tired, and we really just wish that our baby had lived.
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